I love the new season of American Horror Story like a mother loves her teenage child. Which is to say, I will gush about it to anyone that will listen, but sometimes, I just wish it would make better choices. Though season three certainly had its moments (Fiona’s cunning quips give me goosies when I replay them in my head), the last few episodes of Coven were surprisingly lackluster, which makes me think Ryan Murphy exhausted all of the good plotlines early on and consulted Internet forums to fill in the second half of the season. The finale, it seems, was the final nail in the coffin, for a number of reasons.
1) Technically, Cordelia cannot be the Supreme.
When Zoe’s interest in the Supremacy first manifests, she is discouraged by Madison Montgomery’s impressive abilities. Later on, however, she discovers that in order to be the Supreme, a witch must be in perfect health. With her heart murmur, Madison does not fit the bill. Why, then, is Cordelia crowned the next Supreme when she is unable to conceive? Why force viewers to endure the painfully awkward sex ritual between Cordelia and Hank if not to make that fact clear? Not to mention she stabbed herself in the face a couple times, which makes me question her mental stability. (And don’t even get me started on how her eyes miraculously reappeared.)
2) Everything was rushed, just like the whole second half of the season.
Primetime television only allows for an hour per episode, maybe two. I get that. However, that doesn’t make it acceptable to pack in 3 hours worth of material into a 45-minute time slot. By the second commercial break, 4 of the 7 tasks had been completed and one of the characters was dead. (If this wasn’t the finale, I would not have lamented this fact as much, considering half of the characters have died and come back to life at this point.) By the next break, Cordelia had stepped in and completed all the tasks like it was nothing and the hunt for the Supreme was over. If I wanted to watch accelerated plotlines, Ryan, I would’ve turned on Breaking Bad.
3) Myrtle’s death was a case of faulty logic.
Riddle me this: if Myrtle, who dedicated her life to protecting the art of witchcraft and Fiona’s dysfunctional Coven, is deemed corrupted enough (albeit, by herself) to be burned at the stake, why should Queenie be allowed to stick around? After all, she did abandon the group when they needed her most and for Fiona’s number one enemy, no less. To push the envelope further, she also killed Cordelia’s husband, who was really doing the Coven a favor when he stormed Marie Laveau ‘s voodoo clubhouse. And yet, in the finale, Queenie is not only praised for her “bravery” but honored with a spot on Cordelia’s council. As much as I appreciate her sarcasm and sass, Queenie earned a spot on the stake next to Myrtle more than she did next to Cordelia.
4) Misty did not have to die.
At least, not like that. While I understand one of the witches was bound to fail at the “Seven Wonders” test (the amount of times AHS advertisements promoted a potential fatality demanded at least one), Misty Day simply did not deserve the death that she was granted. This is especially true considering that she suffers the same cringe-worthy fate as Fiona, who was deemed soulless by the Devil himself. Did Misty, who spent the majority of her days frolicking in the woods and bringing helpless creatures back to life (Madison excluded), deserve such a heartless ending? I can justify most any fictitious death as long as there is a purpose behind it. Here, I find none.
5) The ending was downright cliché.
If you were paying attention, you probably could have predicted every word of Cordelia’s end speech before she even opened her mouth. “Fiona was bad, I will be good, this Coven will be the bestest, etc. etc. etc.” I don’t mean to rag on Cordelia because she was one of my favorite underdogs this season but her inspirational speech at the end left a lot to be desired.
6) Since when is “inception” a power?
In the end, Fiona reveals that she gave the Ax Man a “vision” of him murdering her in order to trick Cordelia into thinking she was dead. While I know “mind control” is a common power among witches, no where in the series did they mention “inception” abilities. (Though I’m glad they did because now I can assume that Leonardo Dicaprio was part wizard and that only makes him more appealing.)
7) There were too many “fillers.”
As I’ve said, Myrtle didn’t need to be burned at the stake and we certainly didn’t need to see the procession following her to her death or her teary talk with Cordelia beforehand. Kyle’s undying love (lolz) for Zoe was a given so the “crying over her corpse” thing seemed unnecessary, as was…well, basically the entire second half of the episode.
Unless the producers pull a Vince Gilligan and release an alternate ending to the finale, this season of American Horror Story ended with a disappointing fizzle and no amount of magic can bring it back.
This is a post from AdventurersAbroad, my joint study abroad blog with my friends. In an effort to not spam you all, I’ll try to keep all my SA posts over there but some of them might sneak over to this page every once in awhile.
I’ve been in Brighton for a little over a week now, during which time I’ve realized a few things. First and foremost, everything in the UK is obscenely expensive. Considering the British Pound is worth 1.6 US dollars, I’ve fallen into the habit of doubling every price tag I see so I don’t fool myself into thinking I’ve stumbled upon a deal. A fancy shirt for ten pounds? Twenty American dollars. Put it back on the rack. Even Poundland (the UK dollar store) seems overpriced at times and I’m worried my frugal spending habits are only going to exacerbate from this point on. Living here is like willfully applying for the Cheap Person SATs.
The hidden costs I’ve uncovered don’t make matters better. When I applied to the University of Sussex, I was under the impression that the town was a 10 minute walk away from campus, which, coming from a school that doesn’t even have a town to walk to, made me pretty ecstatic. Come to find out it is, in fact, a twenty minute bus ride from campus, one which costs 3.50 pounds (7 dollars) each time you use it. While there’s plenty to do on campus, the grocery store and bank both lie in the center of the coastal town and so, I’ve found myself riding the bus more than I had originally expected.
On top of that, I had to pay for a keycard to get into the media building where one of my classes is, which doesn’t seem entirely fair considering I’m only going to be here for a semester and I only have one class in that wing. It’s an abuse of power, really.
Apart from the barrels of cash I’ve had to hand over, though, I’m starting to enjoy my time at this school. It’s significantly bigger than Wheaton (by about 11,000 people, to be exact) but as a result, there’s always something happening on campus. (And the students here take advantage of that whenever possible. These people go out in one week than I have in my entire life.) Students are fond of house parties here. My friend and I went to a birthday party with our flatmates the other day (not to party but to observe). Though the International Students ultimately ended up crowding together in the corner of the room, we still got to mingle with our flatmates from time to time, who questioned us about American culture and food products. (“Do Bostonians eat a lot of Boston Cream doughnuts?” and “You guys hang out at Krispy Kreme, right?” Apparently, the British think we’re all doughnut fanatics.) We also learned what flapjacks are, and they are nothing like pancakes, which is what we expected.
The best part though, for me at least, was listening to the people singing at the end of the night. The British accent turned what would have been a collective round of “Happy birthday to youuu” into “Happy birfday to youuu” which I appreciated. It’s the little things.
Also, this happened:
British student during a discussion on why Americans may enjoy movies more than other forms of media: “But I heard Americans can’t read? Like, 1 in 3 American adults are illiterate?”
If anyone had any doubts over what the British think of us, it’s become clear that, in their eyes, we are illiterate doughnut-lovers. Not too far off from the truth, I guess.
That’s very nice, but I’m not blond.
I’ve decided to start a new section of this blog dedicated to my favorite mental affliction: anxiety. (I hope you all picked up on the sarcasm there.) It seems like every day, I uncover some new image or idea that makes my stomach shrivel into a raisin, and what better way to get over a problem than to acknowledge its existence? Every Friday or so, I’ll try to write a mini-post with 2 or 3 things that make me anxious and an explanation as to why. And that’s exactly what I’ll call it, “Things That Make Me Anxious,” because none of the days of the week start with “A” so I can’t create some clever alliterative combination like “Anxiety ___Day.” If anyone has a suggestion for the column title, I’ll all ears.
So, without further adieu…
- Holding babies
When someone hands you a baby, what they are really doing is handing you a fraction of their soul that they spent 9+ months nurturing to health and asking you not to break it. That’s a lot of pressure to put a person under. What if instead of a nervous laughter, I have a nervous body spasm? What if my arms suddenly stopped working and the child dropped to the floor, causing instant death? You might think I’m overreacting but holding a baby is like holding a defenseless soul that could disappear at any second. If you move your arm the wrong way, their head might bend back, breaking their spine. You could trip on your way to an armchair and squish the little bugger like…well, a bug. The parents would never forgive you for that, you would never forgive you for that, and the Karma Gods certainly wouldn’t let you get away with killing a child without consequence. Never hand me a baby, please.
- Visions of myself skydiving
Planes are stressful enough. They are giant, pressurized buses flying through the air hundreds of miles above sea level. I’ve seen Final Destination enough to know how quickly a plane can blow up mid-air. With that in mind, why would I ever choose to skydive? I wouldn’t. That’s your answer. But that doesn’t stop my brain from conceptualizing the experience against my will. I still see my feet dangling over the edge of an open airplane door, tickling the clouds with my toes, and preparing to leap. I still imagine my parachute not opening and me falling to my doom.
- Pictures of humans without skin
In science class once, we looked at a replica of a human arm without skin to study the form of the muscles and veins. Ever since then, I’ve been cursed with mental images of skinless humans, walking around like bad Sci-Fi movie monsters. It certainly doesn’t help with stage fright either. Imagine everyone naked? No, that vision is long gone, replaced by images of human-shaped meat slabs covered in little blue veins.
Every holiday has its trademark activity. On Thanksgiving, you eat. On Christmas, you give gifts. On Memorial Day, you barbeque. On New Year’s Eve, you party. That’s the way it is, whether you prefer to sit in your room with a noisemaker and watch the ball drop from the safety of your bedroom, or whether you want to be in Times Square shivering along with thousands of other people. Those who choose the second option often go through a number of stages including drunken debauchery, the false declaration of resolutions, and the sometimes-awkward kiss with a nearby stranger. My descriptions don’t do these actions justice, though, so I’ll let this obscure list of words jazz up the annual New Year’s Eve agenda.
8 P.M. You declare yourself a noceur.
Without ever saying the word, you’ve probably declared yourself a noceur millions of times. In fact, most college students are self-declared noceurs, often staying up into the wee hours of the night to finish 10-page research papers that they’ve saved until the last minute. Noceur means “one who sleeps late or not at all” or “one who stays out late to party.” If you’re not one of these, you don’t stand a chance on NYE.
9 P.M. You develop dipsomania.
Though dipsomania may sound like a cheesy name for a new salsa dip, in reality, it refers to the “uncontrollable desire for drink, especially alcohol.” While I don’t condone indulging in this impulse (most things that start with “uncontrollable” are not good news), it’s New Year’s Eve, so I’m not going to try to stop the inevitable.
9:30 P.M. You grow crapulous.
I’m not going to lie. I originally included crapulous because I’m immature and it made me laugh, but it also seems appropriate in the given situation. Crapulous, an adjective meaning “given to gross excess in drinking or eating,” is the result of giving in to dipsomania.
10:30 P.M. You become temulent.
Which is just a fancy word for drunk. But that’s not even the fun part.
Only after a few shots is it okay to declare yourself the next president of Harvard University and invent new languages that no one else is allowed to partake in because their IQ is not 420 like yours. By which I mean, sophomania (the delusion of exceptional intelligence) is only permissible on New Year’s Eve. Every other time, I will not hesitate to slap you.
11 P.M. You slip into dacrygelosis.
Have you ever founds something so exciting and so tragic that you can’t decide whether to laugh or cry? That’s dacrygelosis, which is a condition that causes a person to alternate between laughing and crying. This happens a lot after a few rounds of drinks, at weddings, or during the series finale of your favorite TV show.
11:30 P.M. You and your friends begin to gilvarage.
As midnight nears, the late-night mischief goes into high gear and debauchery is at its peak. Around this time, people pull out the obnoxious noisemakers and fireworks to prepare to ring in the new year. That is to say, they start to gilvarage or, “celebrate noisily.” We might as well rename the entire holiday after this word because it really defines New Year’s Eve in my opinion.
What better way to kick off the new year than with a love kiss or, a suavation? Whether your inebriated delusions convince you to lock lips with the nearest lamp fixture or whether you go out and find a real person, suaviations are a stable of the New Year’s Eve tradition. Be careful, though. If it’s not with your significant other, awkwardness is almost guaranteed.
12 P.M. In the end, you are still tautoousious.
You’ve been to every bar in the city, you’ve attended every festivity the area has to offer, you’ve watched the ball drop on a tiny television in a crowded room and you’ve even scored a New Year’s kiss. But when everything is said and done, and your 2014 resolutions are publicly declared, you are still the same person you were before. Unless you’re the kind of person that actually does start a diet on January 1st (if you are, bravo…you are a rare breed and I envy you immensely), you will most likely not change much in the split second between December 31st and January 1st. You are tautoousious (“being absolutely the same”).
However, while you may not follow through with all your overreaching goals for the year (try making more reasonable vows because “seducing Zac Efron” will likely not work out), by next December 31st, you may be different than you were the year before. By next December 31st, you may be able to shake your tautoousiousness and be a better, different person. I mean, look at me! It’s January, 2014 and I’ve already made up a new noun: tautoousiousness. There is a world of possibilities waiting for us out there, people. Let’s not let it go to waste.
Info via Kokogiak.com.